Still I Rise
by ToxicKittyCat
Summary: Serial Killer on the loose, and conspiracy in making that aims to shatter the world- too bad Sherlock can only observe it from behind the prison bars. Series of coincidences put him as Criminally Insane in Wandingham Prison. As the hell breaks loose he has only phone-a-day to repair it, the life as prisoner comes, too, with struggle. Pre-Reichenbach. Prisoner!lock.


**According to the Copyright Act, this product is work of parody and not commercial. Real respect goes to Conan Doyle, his estate, and the BBC.**

**Give series of warm hellos to our wonderful editor: **SyncreticVenture

**This is a checked and edited chapter; just look how exciting it is- new words, better grammar! **

**REMINDER: It is Sherlock's mind, Sherlock's opinion- I do not share it- so, if you are feeling insulted do blame him, not me.**

"_I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity_." ― E.A. Poe

**Chapter One: In The River**

* * *

After death, the body's core temperature falls by one degree Centigrade with every hour that passes.  
_

**If not for the blank face of Big Ben** to the North, I could have been standing in shabbiest street of some Third-World Country belonging to the Commonwealth's shame. Instead we were in London, though the most dilapidated part of it, an area so profuse with crime that police sirens made up the better portion of the background noise.

I personally have nothing against crime-it spices up life-but refined crime alone. Clever scandal, witty murder; not this crude manslaughter which happens over spilled beer. The IQ of this place is the lowest in Europe. If the sirens were to ever fade, you could hear the sound of digits spiralling down the foul water of the canal with the rest of the rubbish. If not for the dead body in the river, I would've considered fetching the cleanest cab I could find and making my way to some more intellectual homicide, but I was already here and that seemed too troublesome to bother with.

With all the fuss about stewardship and whatnot, not to mention the excessive taxes spent in their names, one would think that the environmental agencies would be more effective. Certainly their representatives might faint at the sight of this 'water,' it being almost entirely comprised of chemical sludge, refuse, and the corpses of some unfortunate birds who had thought to take a drink here and instead poisoned themselves. At any rate, it made the crime scene more cinematographic; the young ginger inspector had even managed to decorate it with his disgorge.

"Nasty business," Lestrade summarized.

I personally found it quite affable, but chose not to respond in order to avoid John's exasperation. Tiresome. The body floated on the greenish surface as serenely as a saint would in Heaven, if such things existed. This saint, however, promised me at least a modicum of occupation, and would deliver on its promises, unlike religion. I tried to stop the grin forming on my face, quite fruitlessly it seemed, as my efforts were awarded by John nudging me with a sharp elbow.

"Sherlock." John reminded me in half-whisper, his 'warning' tone. Augh. No one knows how to have fun anymore.

His disapproval made me giggle openly in defiance, which brought both the attention of the officers on the scene and a small smile from John. One of the newer officers looked about ready to throw out an offensive remark, but didn't get the chance to as a civilian chose that moment to slither below the police tape. Probably to get a better view of the body. I am not surprised. The spectacle attracted the attention of entire neighbourhood, and quite the crowd has formed just outside the barriers. Their presence tells me all I need to know about the state of the micro-economy; clearly a majority of this area's population is unemployed.

Because the body was caught between brambles and shopping bags, the police had to carefully untangle it. They finally managed to hook it and begin pulling it towards the shore, like some sinking ship being dragged to port by tugboats. SS Carcass making its way to the quays- _beep, beep_. Finally I could get a closer look.

The woman's throat gaped open like the mouth of a dead fish, the already bloodless scar breaking the smooth line of her pale neck. She had some traces of poisonous red lipstick on and mascara, little more than smears by this point. Also, she could not have been a resident of this sector of London, as expensive stones decorated her joined earlobes. Real diamonds aren't found on the ears of the unfortunate and unemployed. So, whoever killed her didn't do it for the money she clearly had, and was of higher status than her as he or she had not taken the opportunity to steal said ridiculously overvalued earrings. The body had been dead for a fair amount of time now, but hadn't been in the water for all that time as it was neither bloated nor sodden to the point of disintegration. I could easily pull out patches of her scarlet hair and scrape her skin as if it belonged to a shedding reptile, but only Molly would be able to give me an exact time of death and estimate for how long she'd spent in this disgusting river.

"Don't." John muttered. Everybody was unusually quiet, a state I wish they'd adopt more often. I wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the grim setting. Or the smell. I couldn't decide which one was worse: the one coming from the greenish canal shining with pollutants, the body in its advanced state of decomposition, or the neighbourhood littered with garbage. The combination produced a scent that refused to fade into the background. Usually smells, no matter how unpleasant, dissipate quickly into the general atmosphere and become ignorable; this miasma did not.

Although the water had not held this corpse for an excessive length of time, the element had already done a good job of covering up the potential evidence of this crime. All the forensic evidence such as fingerprints and hairs and blood spatters, lost. Her effects, if she'd had any, had either been taken from her before the disposal or lost somewhere in the murky river. Any important papers she might have been carrying had been transformed into a greyish mush lining her pockets.

A note: Entire investigations have been halted by the lack of personal information, so if you're reading this right now, remember to always have something like an oyster card or driving license on you. When someone butchers you, it makes the police's job easier by half, and those imbeciles can use all the help they can get.

John was a person that used to mull me with the _don't-get-excited-when-people-die_ speeches, which I have ignored upon hearing their title, yet on this occasion I couldn't conquer the temper. This electrifying tickle that moved up my back and sparks making my fingers twitchy, if my brain was a work of cogs and gears they would've spiralled uncontrollably just like wheels of rampaging locomotive. A cadaver washed up in the tributaries of Thames. There's something about the body: The _cut._ Committed using most regular of cleaver, but the scarring had a practiced eye to it. As if the killer had done it previously and with calculated premeditation. We might be on a track of serial killer, first once since the Jefferson Hope case, and I have chance of following it from very beginning!

Only thing that would underline my theory is the report from the morgue, and that would show for_ Modus Operati_ of the killer, after that a new body has to wash up with similar scarring. Of course, stating to those _dim-heads_ "Let's just stay patient and wait till the murderer takes another step." But that would've been rewarded with another speeches going on lines "If you have clue, tell now, we might save a life!" They don't know what thrill is.

I am over the moon, because the serial killer would be surely playing a game with me. But for that to happen I have to keep quiet.

Finally a case that is not commonplace, oh isn't it Christmas.

Lestrade had to fill out his report and he was useless on his own, so I stated everything that I saw: the time she was in water, her job, and a possible suspect.

"So she's not from around here?" Lestrade asked.

"No, judging by state of her skin, the speed of the current, and the side of the river she got stuck on, she came from the northern canals. It hasn't rained so I suspect she was thrown away in Brent or Crane and took two days to be pulled to this spot." I explained, retracing my map of freshwater London links in my head. "Ask for missing persons from those areas."

"What about the murder?"

"You are the officer here, there's this thing attached to your neck, it's called a head; use it!" I had an answer but I wanted to annoy him. As soon as I earned his glare, I explained, "The blade used was short and not too sharp; note the rough edges of the incision. I suspect a Swiss Army Knife, a new one purchased for this purpose and likely thrown into the water with the corpse."  
Some more jotting down before the Inspector rose.

"I'll have forensics scan the area." He said.

"What a waste of resources. They'll find nothing in this bog."

"I am the cop here. You're just a hitchhiker."

"You might be the driver, but I carry the fuel."

"One more clever remark and I will punch you in the face."

"You won't, as you run the risk of injuring your tender hands." I waited a moment before adding, "And that was a clever remark and my nose is still intact."

I left him while he was still giving me his patented I-will-kill-you-someday look.

**John offered me something on our way back;** I guess it was fish and chips because we stopped in some greasy takeaway. I hadn't bothered to answer him so he ordered for me.

"What do you think happened to her?" He asked, in an attempt to break me out of my silence.

"She had her throat sliced by a Swiss Army Knife." I explained.

"I could see that; I meant why?"

The youngster gave us yellow packs stuffed with the most common food in Britain. I wasn't hungry so I didn't eat. Without even thinking about it, I tossed my pack into the nearest bin. My mind was still racing over possible suspects, and I never eat while on a case.

"You know, you could've told me that you weren't hungry." John said, face and shoulders tensing with anger. I realised that I indeed could have, had I heard his question in the first place. "That was a waste of money. You know it doesn't fall from the sky."  
But rain does, and rain is water, and you can make a good business on water; but I didn't say that, because I knew it wasn't politically correct. The clock was just turning over the hour of ten o'clock when we dragged our tired selves over the threshold of 221B. Mrs Hudson welcomed us and expressed concern over how late we'd been out, so I let John do the explaining.

"Were you two boys on the case of the lady in the canal?" Our landlady asked. "Oh poor thing, I heard about it in the news-I knew you'd be on case like that-"

She continued to blabber after that, but I muted her in favour of checking on my experiments. Fortunately, she hadn't cleaned up my pile of silvery arsenic compound, which had dug itself into the carpet and between the gaps in the wooden floor. I could have returned to my study of poisonous metalloids, but currently I didn't feel like it. My mind was too busy processing the murder and another unrelated image of me triumphantly standing surrounded by scorching bodies-smiling like a maniac and looking cool with my cloak waving like a flag between the illustrious sparks.

I decided to compose music, to sort out the things in my mind and also to create a soundtrack to match my mental image. Thankfully, the government hasn't created a mind-reading machine yet. Imagine their faces. No, thinking about it, I would love to see how normal people would react to my brutal imagination. The result would be amusing, if only for a brief time.

I picked up my Stradi and corrected the strings, then tenderly moved the bow, creating first soft vibrations then the low hum of a tune. This had become a tradition now, me playing as John and Mrs Hudson made themselves tea and sat on the sofa. Domestic life doesn't suit me, but at moments like these, I would like to freeze time-forever-and just play my violin to the background of John's quiet snoring and the lingering vapour of tea in the still air.

Little do I know how close I will come to losing it all.


End file.
